


Only The Brave

by wingsofbadass



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Break Up, Jean your friendly neighborhood dork, M/M, spider-man au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/pseuds/wingsofbadass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean had a responsibility and that was to protect people. He never learned how to protect his heart from harm, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only The Brave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dance4thedead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance4thedead/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, dear dance4thedead! I hope you enjoy the angst and the AU I've chosen for it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smallest things can have the biggest impact.

Trost was a shimmering web of light, a churning dance of crystals on a black sea. A symphony of engine rumbles and human grumbles floated up from beneath him, a composition as familiar as his own name, as Jean sat on the edge of the roof, feet dangling towards the urban abyss. There was something magical about this city, something so palpably alive that he never really felt alone as long as he was in the middle of it.

Wherever he directed his gaze, Trost beckoned him closer with a coy finger. Skyscrapers reached up towards the star-dotted nothing like careless dancers throwing their hands up in a crowd and streets fanned out wildly like long strands of hair hitting a pillow, unrestrained. Jean's chest was heavy with the affection he felt for the chaos of it all, for the blur of so many souls who shaped this city into what it was and thrived from it at the same time.

This high up, the December wind was merciless on his exposed face, biting at his cheeks and throwing his bleached bangs into his eyes, but he didn't mind it. It felt fresh somehow, pure. He leaned back on his his hands, tipping his head back to face the endless expanse of darkness above him. The bright yellow dousing the Trost night washed the sky almost completely clean of stars, only leaving a dot of light here and there like someone hadn't wiped a tabletop properly and left some crumbs behind. With his mind on nothing particular, Jean watched his breath gather in a heavy cloud in front of his mouth, just for a tiny moment, before it was carried away by the breeze.

The rooftops and canyons between them - sometimes wide, sometimes narrow - had become Jean's favorite part of Trost. His place to be. Up there was his refuge from the pressure of being who he was, just like the night offered safety from the responsibilities of the day. It allowed him to just exist a little without having to fear being grabbed by one of the many demons chasing him. It allowed him to be truly alone in this hive of millions.

Alone was a good thing. It was.

Jean wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting at the top of this building holding countless rows of offices and monotony, where even nearing midnight some windows were still illuminated, but he could feel himself growing restless. He dropped his gaze into his lap where it was immediately drawn by the mask lying next to his right thigh. The sight gave his heart a little twinge that broke the spell of his solitary moment. Rushing back came the knowledge that he had a responsibility. He couldn't afford to waste time on this neon-lit date with his city.

He took a deep breath - he would allow himself no sigh - and sat back upright. For a moment, he rolled his shoulders to release any kinks. Then he grabbed the blue and red mask with his gloved hands and pulled it over his head.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Only three streets from where he'd sat, Jean found his first opportunity of the night to kick someone's ass.

A girl burst out of a little convenience store with a distressed cry, stumbling over the uneven sidewalk and tearing past a group of guys standing around with beer bottles in hand. They looked after her in mild curiosity as the ran down the street, until one of them had the wits to peer through the glass front of the shop to look for the source of the girl's fear. A chorus of "woah!" erupted from the group of young men that made Jean roll his eyes even though he was wearing a mask and currently crouching on the side of a building opposite the store without any company to possibly appreciate his derision.

The cashier was staring straight ahead into the depth of the store obscured from Jean's view, but he knew that look. And sure enough, from behind the shelf stocked with Pringles cans emerged a barrel and then Jean was moving.

Without hesitation he shot a web from his wrist that hit the stucco facade of the building, sticking there and providing better hold than any grappling hook. Swinging forward, Jean curled his limbs close to shield his body against the impact. The glass shattered around him with a deafening crescendo, hailing down into the store and he landed quite gracefully on the counter, right in front of the cashier.

"Look at that, I came in like a wrecking ball," he said with no small amount of pride. Nobody laughed. The robber looked distraught, but that likely had nothing to do with the joke. He was trembling, making the long barrel of the shotgun shake in his hands, and his eyes were wide with terror. Jean got the feeling he was trying to gather enough courage to actually demand something.

"Get out of here," Jean told the man behind him without taking his gaze off the guy with the gun.

"I'm not leaving you alone in my store!" the owner spat angrily, gesturing at the smashed store front. "Look at all the damage you caused! Who's gonna pay for that, huh?"

Incredulous, Jean turned slightly to face the cashier whose massive black mustache trembled as he seemed to chew on his irritation.

"Are you shitting me right now? Would you rather get shot?"

Mustachio snorted. "What, you think that kid is the first asshole trying to rob me?"

"G-give me a-all -"

"Dude, I'm just trying to help," Jean told the store owner honestly. People were beginning to gather in front of the store, carefully peeking in to see what was going on.

"All the m-money fro-"

"What kind of help is that?" was the barked reply. The man's eyes were threatening to pop out of his head with the way they bulged, fixing Jean with an incredulity that made him feel unexpectedly stupid. "I'd rather you bought some of that milk over there, it's about to go off."

"I would," Jean said, holding up a placating hand, "but I'm lactose intoler-"

A gun shot made Jean flinch and spin back around to look at the robber who had fired into the ceiling. On the sidewalk, people screamed and dived for safety once more.

" _The Money!_ " h yelled, his voice breaking with shrill panic, and pointed the shotgun forward again. Uncertain who to threaten, he let the barrel flicker between the two possible targets. Jean realized that despite the guy's sunken eyes and lined features, he was quite young. He couldn't have been much older than him.

Slowly, Jean raised a hand, hoping to draw the attention away from the shop owner. It worked. He saw Squeaky swallow and point it at Jean with visibly rising determination. Or maybe despair. Behind him, Jean heard Mister Mustache whimper as he dropped down to crouch behind his counter.

"Don't move, you freak!" Squeaky shrieked in his ridiculous, grating voice.

"You're one to talk," Jean muttered, but froze obligingly. "You could still get away, you know? Just get lower the gun and get out of here. You haven't hurt anyone."

Admittedly, Jean was pretty shitty at talking criminals out of doing their thing. It usually seemed as though his attempts at pacification caused more irritation than anything else and one of these days he was probably gonna get shot by a pissed off delinquent. Sometimes he wished he had a more calming voice and the ability to get through to people, to say just the right words to reach and inspire –

Wow, now was definitely not a good time to be thinking about _him_.

“Come on, it'll be okay,” Jean tried again.

For a moment, he thought the idiot might actually buy what he'd said. He saw Squeaky hesitate, his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. The barrel of the gun, might've started to lower slightly. But then the unmistakable sound of sirens cut through the tense silence, sudden in their closeness.

Crap. "Or maybe not."

The guy's crazed gaze darted to the street and Jean shot out a web to yank the shot gun from his grasp. He gasped and scrambled for it pitifully as it flew away from him. Jean let the weapon clatter to the floor behind the cash register, while he shot another web with his other wrist at the criminal, binding him almost too easily.

" _Noooo!_ " Squeaky wailed, making Jean grimace and shooting a final piece of sticky web over the dude's mouth to silence him. Blue light flashed into the store and Jean turned his head to see the Police arriving outside.

"Sadly, it's time for me to go," Jean quipped with mock regret, saluted the owner, who seemed to have regained his gall and irritation, and swung neatly out of the broken window. The officers sent bullets and enraged shouts after him, but nothing hit him as he crawled up the front of the building and then vanished from view.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jean tumbled through his bedroom window with a _thud_ that wasn't quite planned. Worried he'd alerted his roommate to his sudden appearance, he quickly wiggled out of the suit that was clinging to his skin as annoyingly as ever. After a harried winding session on the floor, he kicked the red and blue spandex under the bed and grabbed a pair of gray sweatpants from somewhere by his head, just in time for a soft knock to sound on the door.

"Jean, are you okay?” came Mikasa's voice, colored with concern, followed by footsteps.

"Yeah, sure!” he called and sprang to his feet to open the door. "What's up?”

Mikasa was right outside his bedroom, one arm in the sleeve of her black coat, the other raised as though she was about to knock. She looked startled, her berry-colored lips slightly parted, as she took in Jean's probably sweaty face and his stained pants.

"I had no idea you were home," she said, quickly reining in her expression and proceeding to pull her coat on properly. Behind her, the door of the apartment stood open as she was obviously on the verge of going out. He noticed she was wearing her one fancy blouse.

"Oh, I fell asleep early," Jean said lamely and brushed a hand through his hair, barely keeping himself from grimacing at how sticky it felt.

"Getting old, Kirschstein?"

From the doorway, Eren poked his head into the apartment to grin at Jean, his expression much the same as it had been back in school; infuriatingly cocky and endearing at the same time.

"You're the old fart between the two us," Jean returned the greeting dryly, but smiled when Eren stepped closer and clasped his hand to pull him into a bro hug. Jean saw Mikasa roll her eyes good-naturedly.

"Wow, you're sweaty," Eren remarked as they parted, pointedly wiping his palm on Jean's jacket on the overhung coat rack next to the door. "What were you _doing_ in there?"

Jean could feel himself flush faintly with the implication in Eren's voice. "I was asleep, dude." Seeing Eren was still eyeing him with teasing smugness, he improvised, "Nightmare."

Eren's eyebrows drew together as he watched Jean's face, unexpectedly intense. Sometimes it was a little scary how quickly the guy's moods shifted. "Did you fall out of the bed?"

"Uh, yeah."

There was a tiny pause, before Mikasa piped up.

"Anyway, I'm glad I caught you, I have something for you." She raised a finger to indicate he should wait, then disappeared into her bedroom.

Eager to escape Eren's apparent concern he didn't deserve, Jean fished a clean shirt out of his open closet and tugged it on.

"Going somewhere fancy?" Jean asked and was grateful when Eren went along with the change of subject.

"Not really," he said, shrugging a little too casually. "My, uh, father left again, so we're driving down to Shiganshina to keep my Mom company over Christmas."

Jean didn't miss the way Eren stumbled over the word _father_ like he was afraid it would set Jean off. Instead of acknowledging the slip, he raised his eyebrows. "I thought things were better between them after the last time."

Eren was glaring at the floor, taking a sharp breath in through his nose before replying. "Apparently not."

Mikasa saved Jean from the dilemma of what to reply to that by reappearing in their hallway with a small parcel in her hand.

"Since I'll be gone, I'm giving you your Christmas present now," she said with a small smile and held out the midnight blue package to him. But when he was about to reach for it, she snatched it away again. "Don't open it before Christmas, though!"

"I would never!"

Mikasa snorted but let him take the present gingerly into his hands. "Thank you, Mikasa," he said and hugged her to hide that he was getting kind of emotional.

She squeezed his waist affectionately and whispered, "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," he echoed softly into her hair. "Uhm, I was gonna go out and get your present tomorrow."

She laughed as she stepped out of his embrace. "That's okay, I'll be back before New Year's."

With Mikasa's little gift in his hands, Jean watched her slide a slender hand into Eren's, pick up her bag and leave.

Jean let out a sigh in the quiet of the empty apartment. With slow steps he padded across the old hardwood tiles towards the kitchen, accompanied by nothing but the occasional creak and the sound of his bare feet on the floor. In the dimness of the room, he set Mikasa's parcel onto the table with the mismatched chairs grouped around it, before flicking on the desk lamp on the shelf that provided the only illumination apart from the yellow glow of the city outside.

Now that Jean was at home, he realized he'd hoped for Mikasa's company. Sometimes, they'd spend their Friday nights on her large and comfy bed, marathoning some TV show they never got around to with some take-out. Being around Mikasa was calming to the constantly churning sea of angry guilt inside of him, like a soothing hand on his shoulder. She was second only to the sensation of tender knuckles stroking along his cheek with –

His compartment in the fridge contained nothing but a pile of Monster cans, ketchup, a moldy tin of pineapple and a bottle of vodka. With his stomach rumbling, Jean grabbed the bottle and two cans and sank into his favorite chair. He mixed his drink and took a large gulp from it, then decided to just down the whole glass, before focusing his attention onto the present. There was a golden ribbon wrapped around the not quite square box, forming an intricate bow on top. Mikasa had tucked a tiny card underneath the bow, he saw now, and he slid it out carefully.

  
  


_I always see you smell it at the stores, so I thought you should finally have your very own._

_Merry Christmas,_

_Mikasa_

  
  


Slightly confused, Jean tugged at one of the ribbon's ends until it unraveled and fell open. He treated the wrapping paper less kindly, tearing it open without care to reveal a white box. Only when he saw the black uppercase letters spelling out _DIESEL_ did he realize what he was holding.

_I always see you smell it at the stores._

Jean found it hard to breathe as he stared down at the little package in his hands. It was as though someone had stepped onto his chest, pushing all of their weight onto Jean's poor lungs, chasing all the breath from him in a single instant and leaving him with this ache that was nothing but distinct _absence_.

Only when Jean let out a weird little laugh that might've been a dry sob, did life rush back into him.

His hand was steady as he opened the cardboard box and took out the the familiar blue bottle of cologne. Fittingly, the flacon was in the form of a fist. Jean could feel it wrap icy glass fingers around his heart, tightening, tightening, crushing.

"Fuck," Jean breathed into palm, then wiped it across his mouth. He poured himself another drink and took several large sips for courage, before he raised the cologne bottle, which felt heavier in his hand than it had any right to be, to his wrist and sprayed. The wet mist coated the pale skin where the blue of his veins shone through, but he pushed the sprayer down a second time, and then brought his hand to his nose and breathed in.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jean felt Marco swallow heavily, felt the Adam's apple bob against his lips. A shivery sigh followed, an unconscious little sound that made Jean's heart swell with affection and he pressed closer against Marco, against his blessedly warm skin. Marco's hand came up to cradle the back of his head, tenderly, but enough of a sign for Jean to know Marco wanted more, so he dragged his mouth further along Marco's throat, kissing along one of the magical paths drawn into the skin by those freckles, stark in the middle of June.

With every deep breath Jean heaved, he breathed in more of Marco, more of the fragrance that was sweat and minty shampoo and vivacity, more of that delicious cologne he was always wearing these days. God, he smelled so _good_ it made Jean weak and he let out a throaty sound muffled only a little by Marco's pulse dancing under his lips. Shamelessly, Jean rolled his hips against Marco's, reveling in the feeling of bareness between them.

"Mmhh, Jean." The name floated from Marco's mouth like the mistiest of clouds, barely there against a clear sky, and it gave Jean chills. The hand at the back of Jean's hand tightened just slightly, the fingers tugging gently at the strands of his hair to steer him upwards. "Come here."

The kiss they shared was slow, the melody of a ballad composed by hearts at once soaring and falling, falling. Jean trailed a hand to Marco's cheek where his palm molded to the strong curve like it had always belonged there and he could feel the movement of Marco's slightly stubbly jaw. His touch was light and yet it felt like it was sinking into Marco's face, like it could leave the same trace there that had been left on his soul.

When he broke away, Jean kept his lips close to Marco's, breath warm between them. He opened his eyes to look down at Marco in the pale morning light and his heart gave a delighted squeeze as he found dark eyes looking back into his. There was no tiring of all the little things he found in that face. Again and again Jean loved discovering his favorite freckles and the way the deep brown of his irises bled into a black ring towards the edge. He let his gaze travel along features as familiar as his own reflection, over the bridge of Marco's nose and the curve of the Cupid's bow on his upper lip. There was a flush dusting Marco's cheeks at Jean's unabashed staring, like this hadn't been a regular occurrence for months.

Marco smiled, only faintly at first, until it seemed he could no longer hold back the entirety of his happiness and it burst forth like sunshine through the clouds.

"Fuck, you're so gorgeous," Jean rasped and ducked back down, balancing on his elbows, to bring their mouths together once more. Marco hummed happily, opening his lips to deepen the kiss, and Jean thought he might easily get lost in this feeling. It felt so easy, so effortless to be with Marco like this. His feelings for this absolute marvel of a person were so intense they should've weighed down his heart, but instead he found himself lighter than he could remember feeling in a long time. Jean was in love, ridiculously in love, and it was so easy.

Gentle fingertips stroked along Jean's sides, leaving glowing trails behind along the canvas of his skin, and he shivered with the sensation.

"I love you," Marco whispered. The words burned through Jean like rich liquor and he chased them with another hot kiss.

"I love you too." Jean pressed another kiss to those delicious lips, meaning to say more, but then he couldn't tear himself away from them again and he succumbed to the need without a fight.

Marco wasn't quite as weak as Jean was.

"You're so intense today," he remarked, fingers stroking the bangs out of Jean's eyes. There was no judgment in his tone, there never was, just an honest curiosity to know Jean, to understand whatever he couldn't pick up on.

Jean leaned into the touch and sighed. "You make me feel like -" For the first time today, he took his gaze off Marco and let it roam the tidy studio apartment, that was so much warmer than his own bedroom in every perceivable way, like it might supply the words he was looking for. "Like maybe things are gonna be okay."

Marco's fingers stopped in his hair. Nervously, Jean glanced back down at him to find his eyes filled with concern.

"Of course things are gonna be okay, Jean," he said calmly, but his voice allowed for no doubt. "Why wouldn't they?"

Thinking about what lay behind him was like dark tea spreading out through previously clear water, filling him with a dense gloom that had become a familiar companion. Jean hated remembering it, loathed talking about it, but there was no desire to hide from Marco. Naked was what he was with Marco, in every way he could.

"You know what I did," Jean told him, voice brittle. "Or rather, what I didn't do."

Marco knew better than to make excuses for him. He cupped Jean's jaw in his palm, eyes wide and earnest. "You weren't a strong person back then. You were only fifteen. Since then, you've grown so much stronger, but you remember what it feels like to be weak and that makes you such a good -"

"Please don't call me the h-word", Jean interrupted with a grimace, unable to listen to those kind words, kinder than he was worthy of.

Marco smiled a little. "I was gonna say good _person_ , but yeah, that too."

Despite himself, Jean felt the corners of his mouth twitch in response, and he buried his face in the crook of Marco's neck – partly to hide his expression, partly to let himself sink into the comforting embrace. The scent of Marco's skin was like balm soothing his raw soul and he closed his eyes.

"You're gonna be okay."

And right there, in Marco's arms, it was easy to believe.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Eyes stinging, Jean wrenched his wrist away from his face. He hadn't allowed himself to consciously think of Marco in weeks, hadn't wallowed in memories and misery like he had right after. Even though he was all alone in the dimly lit kitchen, he felt humiliated. Here he was, on the verge of tears after smelling that stupid cologne like some creepy weirdo. Pretty fucking pathetic.

Jean let the flacon tumble from his grip, wobble noisily on the scratched tabletop, and grabbed the vodka instead. His mind swimming with velvety laughter and gossamer touches, he poured a little too much of the clear liquor into the bottom of his glass than he should have. After staring at it for a moment, he raised it to his lips and gulped it all down without any addition. His throat burned like he'd just swallowed sandpaper and with a groan, he grabbed the can of energy drink in the hopes of relieve.

As soon as the burning sensation was gone, all he could think about was how Marco would've laughed at him and the way Monster was trickling down his chin. Maybe he would've leaned in with that cheeky expression he'd gotten sometimes to lick the droplets from Jean's skin.

The next swallow was taken directly from the bottle. It tasted revolting, but Jean was grateful for the way the vodka blazed through his limbs, numbing the ache of remembering Marco. Marco and his beautiful bronzed skin. Marco and the way he made a pun and laughed about it himself like a dork, his nose scrunching up with it. Marco and how amazing his hands felt on Jean. Marco and the way he looked in the morning, dark her tousled and eyes squinting as though in disapproval at the mere existence of daylight. Marco and the way he held Jean close.

With every gulp Jean drowned out the exquisite pain only to have it come crashing back in moments later. He wanted to hear Marco's voice so badly it was like like a physical ache. Dizzy, he leaned his head into his hand and patted his sweatpants fruitlessly for his phone, before remembering that it was on his bedside table, charging. For a moment he wondered whether he'd be able to shoot webs straight into his bedroom to retrieve it without actually moving from this chair, but even this wasted he could tell that wouldn't work. He groaned weakly, before dragging himself up and began stumbling out of the kitchen.

He collided with the door frame and the wall of the hallway, almost ripping off Mikasa's Kill Bill poster, before he made it to his bed. After letting himself drop onto the edge of the mattress, he managed to take his phone off the charger, but the lock code posed a whole new challenge.

"Come on, you piece of shit," Jean mumbled irritably as he swiped across the greased screen for the third time and finally managed to unlock it. He found the number with embarrassing ease. As the dial tone rang, Jean sprawled out over his messy comforter. The room spun.

" _Hello?_ " Marco sounded like he wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to answer the phone. As long as he'd known Marco, Jean had never been greeted like this by him.

"Marco," he choked and even to his own ears he sounded absolutely pitiful.

" _Jean? Are you okay_?"

Judging by the way his heart constricted at the sound of concern in Marco's tone, he wasn't. Even through the phone Marco's voice was more glorious than Jean had remembered. He closed his eyes as though he was enjoying a concert, eager to block out anything but that voice, and pressed the phone closer to his ear like it might create the intimacy he really craved.

"I miss you," he blurted out, the fabric of his words hopelessly frayed. "I miss you so damn much."

There was a brief pause at the other end in which Jean internally begged Marco to speak, to say something, anything at all.

" _Are you drunk?_ "

Stung, Jean opened his eyes to the darkness of his room. He focused on his mouth, willing the words to come out clearly. "That has nothing to do with how I feel."

All he wanted was to hear that Marco missed him, too.

" _Are you on your own? Where's Mikasa?_ "

"With Eren. This is all her fault, you know?" Marco gave an inquisitive hum, prompting Jean to elaborate. "You know what she got me for Christmas? Your favorite cologne." Jean suddenly snorted with laughter, although he had no idea why. The situation seemed absolutely ridiculous.

" _Jean..._ "

He couldn't stop laughing. "I love you," he wheezed. "Can you believe this shit? I love you."

Marco didn't reply. Rolling onto his side and curling up like a child, Jean sobbed into the sheets. He thought he heard Marco murmur something into his ear, but he couldn't catch it. His pride was gone, flushed out and left behind somewhere at the kitchen table. "Don't you love me at all?"

" _I'm gonna hang up now, okay? And then –_ "

Jean let the phone slip from his grip. Marco was saying something else, the sound a faint buzzing somewhere behind him. There was no breath in his lungs.

  
  


* * *

  
  


As soon as Jean's mind cleared enough to let the beams of consciousness shine through the heavy fog of sleep and headache, he knew he was in Marco's arms.

It wasn't just warm; it was that particular brand of warmth that was all Marco, comforting and solid. It was taking the first sip of a cup of hot chocolate with the steam greeting snow-bitten cheeks. It was standing so close to a bonfire that the heat of the flames chased away any memory of cold like it had never even existed. It was sinking into the bathtub to float in that blissful feeling and leave everything else behind.

Marco's even breath was a gentle caress on his skin, tickling the peach fuzz Jean's neck. With his heart beating – not faster exactly but as though with renewed purpose, Jean lay in that embrace he'd missed so desperately and refused to open his eyes. He needed to feel, just sense Marco's consolatory presence pressed against his back, snaked around his waist and laying wide-fingered on his stomach underneath a flimsy old shirt he'd donned the night before. Underneath his thick comforter their legs were tangled.

Carefully, Jean turned his head to take a peek at Marco – and immediately flinched at the sharp pain stabbing his skull. Unbidden, a groan wrenched free from between Jean's parched lips and he felt Marco stir. His arm around Jean's waist tightened, pulling them closer together and oh, how Jean's pulse tripped and tumbled at the gesture.

There was an unintelligible grumble from Marco, unwilling to rouse as ever, and then a nose was pressed against Jean's neck. Somehow, this meant the world to Jean in that moment. It was still the same Marco, his Marco.

Unable to help himself, Jean wiggled around until he could turn and face Marco who blinked his eyes open slowly to squint at Jean like no time had passed at all since the last time they had woken up together this way. Jean swallowed around the lump in his throat and lightly stroked his knuckles over Marco's cheek, watching those dark lashes flutter as dark eyes drifted shut at the touch. For a moment, everything felt right.

Realization made every inch of Marco's frame tense up with the suddenness of a lighting strike. His eyes flew open to stare at Jean, slightly wider than usual. Jean stilled as well, mirroring Marco's rigidity automatically, his fingers lingering on dark stubble.

Marco swallowed. "How are you feeling?” he asked, uncharacteristically formal.

Stupid. Happy. Embarrassed. Grateful. Loved.

"Like shit,” he croaked, honestly describing his physical condition. His head was throbbing unpleasantly, his mouth was so dry it might've been full of sand, and his stomach was in turmoil. That was what Marco had asked about. He didn't give a reply, however, just turned onto his back, away from Jean and stretched his whole body with a throaty little groan.

Heart heavy in his chest, Jean turned away from Marco as well, grabbing for his phone on the bedside table which told him that it was 11:48 am and that he had three unread messages. He ignored the renewed pang he felt at the sight of his lock screen – a selfie he and Marco had taken in the summer with soft sunlight and softer smiles as they looked at each other – and swiped across the numbers to enter his code. Only after it refused to unlock twice, did Jean realize he was holding an iPhone, not a Samsung. He was looking at Marco's phone, Marco's lock screen.

Sometimes, when he didn't pay attention well enough, Jean would misjudge the distance between two buildings or the length of web he needed to swing himself forward to the next structure. And just for a moment, he'd feel himself fall, plummet down towards the gleaming and twinkling chasm beneath him, before he managed to shoot another web to pull himself back upwards.

Jean was sinking, with his pulse thundering a hopeful rhythm of pleas in his ears, he was motionless in his descent as he stared at the picture. Marco still felt the same way about him. He was holding the reflection of his own helpless longing for what had been in his hand. He was just about to speak up – to say what he had no idea – when he heard the bed springs creak with Marco's shifting weight.

"I should go home," Marco said, his voice so much smaller than him, and when Jean turned back around he saw nothing but Marco's broad shoulders slumping forward, head cradled in his hands.

"Why?"

There was no reply, only a hand running through dark hair in a gesture that let Jean know Marco felt just as lost as he did. Carefully, Jean crawled over to him and, when Marco didn't recoil from his proximity, slung his arms around rigid shoulders, let himself melt against the familiar curve.

"Just stay," he whispered into Marco's ear. "Stay with me."

The steadying breath Marco took at that was so deep, so weary that Jean could feel himself being shifted with the movement of Marco's body. Marco was tired. Tired of pretending they didn't want to be together, maybe, or tired of always trying to do the sensible thing.

"Let go, Jean."

"W-what?"

"Let go of me."

Something in Marco's voice made Jean slip away from him, frail heart quivering against his ribs. As soon as he was free, Marco stood and whirled around to face Jean with a torn expression. He looked hurt. Hurt and confused.

"Jean, what was that last night?" he demanded, throwing his arms out wide.

In return, Jean could only stare up at him. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he knew Marco was threatening to slip away from him. It was like he'd encountered a deer in the woods, leaving him scared to move a muscle or make a sound in case it might startle and flee.

"I'm sorry," Jean began after an instant, trying to keep his voice even. "I don't really know what I was thinking. I guess I just -" He looked down into his lap, swallowing around his dry throat. "I really did miss you."

When Marco responded he sounded on the verge of anger. It made Jean realize how much he'd hoped his words might thaw this strange, cool Marco. "Is that why you called me? Because you knew I would come?"

" _What?_ " Jean's head snapped back up. "No, of course not!"

A muscle in Marco's jaw flexed as he ground his teeth together. Never had Jean expected to be the cause of this sign of irritation he'd always found endearing.

"Then why did you call me? I don't _get_ it!" Marco turned and paced away a couple of steps, hands jittery. "I was doing fine without you!"

Jean could feel himself falling further, sinking with nothing to grab onto. "Is that why I'm on your lock screen?"

His face flushed, Marco whipped back towards Jean. "Why were you looking at my phone?"

Jean wanted to tell him it had just been an accident, but hurt and disappointment were rising fast inside of Jean and they erupted in a turbulent spout of words right from his gut."Why are you even here if it's such a bother?"

From the look Marco gave him, he might've just asked him why the sun went up in the east, but the expression soon melted off his features to reveal something that might've been resignation. "You know exactly why I'm here and why you're on my lock screen, Jean, but it doesn't change anything."

Too much was churning in Jean's stomach, too much to handle. He jumped up from the bed and moved into Marco's space, finding pleasure in the closeness despite himself.

"How can you say that?" he growled. "I want to be with you, okay? I'm not getting over you and you're not getting over me. This," he gestured between them with a trembling hand, "is bullshit!"

"Are you still gonna worry that being your boyfriend makes me a target for bad guys?" When Jean didn't reply, Marco did it for him. "Yes, you are! And am I still gonna be bothered by the fact that I can't ever be your first priority? Yes, I am!"

"That's not fair!" At this point, Jean felt nauseated. His voice came out with much less force than he'd hoped, lending him a desperate air he wasn't sure he could stand.

Marco took a deep breath. "No, it's not," he agreed, before turning away and beginning to pick up his belongings from around the room; his jacket, his phone, his shoes.

There was no web Jean could shoot to stop his downfall now.

His eyes were burning and he blinked fast in defiance. Marco was just fucking leaving, like he hadn't just spent the night holding Jean close. But he had nothing to say in that moment, nothing to offer the love of his life but bitterness. When Marco was about to step out of the door, he found his voice.

"You're a coward."

Marco hesitated with his fingers on the door handle, then he gave Jean a watery smile.

"We can't all be heroes."

And then he walked out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you hanging here, but hey, it wouldn't be angst if I didn't let you stew a little, would it? Update coming soon! 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback here or on [Tumblr](http://wingsofbadass.tumblr.com/) would be so lovely.


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